Less Lore and More Wisdom
by GreyLadyBast
Summary: In ROTK, Bergil is sent by Gandalf in search of athelas to heal Faramir, Merry and Eowyn. This is how he got it.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer-----I own what I own, and Tolkien's estate owns what they own. You figure out which is which.  
  
"Then, in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!" ----Gandalf, to the herb master of Minas Tirith, regarding athelas, ROTK.  
  
Less Lore and More Wisdom  
  
A wrinkled old man sat hunched over a desk in the main room of his small house, deep in one of the poorer sections of Minas Tirith. He was writing a letter to his granddaughter, who was with the rest of the refugees of the city. The oldster had refused to go, claiming he was too old and set in his ways to leave. Furthermore, if worse came to worst, he'd rather die in his own home. Though the family did not like it, they had no choice but to comply. He could be a stubborn old coot when it suited him.  
  
The days after the refugees left had been surprisingly quiet, given that the world was about to end. Of course, there had been war, and wounded, and that terrible day of no sunrise was entirely unpleasant, but all in all, these things did not really touch the old man. Life flowed past him much the way it always had done, with rising, living, sleeping, and not much else. Once, there had been family. Once, there had been friends and comrades. Once, he had had many visitors, but those days had gone past long ere the war touched the city itself. His family had lives of their own, with little time for a grumpy old codger. His friends and comrades from his Ranger days were mostly dead, or witless, or evacuated with the rest of Minas Tirith's noncombatants. So life slid by, war or no war. The only highpoint thus far had been the noise that Grond thing had made, when the enemy tried and failed to break into the city. And that had been more annoying than anything. It disturbed his quiet. Though soon, that would not be a trouble. The silence would be permanent.  
  
Perhaps because he saw his own decay in the mirror every day, he had no fear of death, only a nonchalant impatience with it. He did not approve of the process, for it was messy, and he valued neatness. Death and destruction, in his opinion, should hurry up and be done with, so the work of rebuilding could begin. Then again, he also strongly believed death was a privilege of the aged, not the young, unless they be warriors. And even warriors served better by living to fight another day.  
  
The elderly gentleman sighed. His musings had distracted him from his letter, costing him his momentum. There was no point in continuing now. He got up to make himself some tea. The day was cold, which made his bones ache, so he wrapped a shawl around his thin shoulders. He paused to put more wood on his fire, fretting at the dwindling pile. If the weather did not turn soon, he would run out completely.  
  
"Old bones do not like frigid air. I wish spring would come properly," he grumbled to the flames. He knew full well that this unseasonable chill could be laid squarely at the feet of the Enemy, but that was no comfort for his aches. He questioned again the wisdom of remaining behind when the others left. Again, he dismissed is as quickly as he asked it of himself. He knew why he'd stayed.  
  
"Here I was born and here I will die," he sternly informed the fire. "And no Dark Lord's minions will drive me from my home. Kill me they may, but force me out? Never!"  
  
With a defiant shake of his fist, the oldster lapsed back into silence. Preparing tea took all his attention. He carefully removed the kettle from the fire, carefully began to pour hot water into the teapot. Without warning, a knock on his door distracted him, causing him to jostle the kettle. He spilled some water, nearly scalding his hand.  
  
With a curse not fit for polite company, he returned the kettle to its hanger above the fire and made his way to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he cried testily as the pounding continued.  
  
The old gent tore open the door, slamming it back to vent his irritation. He startled the lad on the stoop in mid-knock.  
  
"What do you want?" the geezer demanded none too gently.  
  
"Please, Grandfather, I am on a vital errand. I have urgent need of athelas," the lad replied, ignoring the oldster's confrontational tone.  
  
Well, now THIS was the last thing the old man expected. Actually, he had not been expecting visitors at all, let alone visitors in the form of a lad asking for a seldom-used herb he kept for his headaches. "What could you possibly want with athelas? Haven't the loremasters told you it's useless?"  
  
"That they have, and repeatedly, too, Grandfather, but a new master has come, one who has use of the herb. Urgent use. Please, Grandfather, have you any?" the lad implored. He wrapped his arms around his body as he spoke, for it was colder outside than in.  
  
The codger could ignore the question, but not the gesture. "Get yourself inside, boy, before you catch your death!" he grumped.  
  
The lad happily obeyed. He slipped past the grumbling oldster, who closed the door behind him. The boy eyed the tea wistfully, but manners and the urgency of his errand forbade his requesting some. The old man noticed as he walked back to the table. He slowly and carefully sat himself down, out of consideration for his aged bones, and poured two cups. He gestured for the boy to sit opposite him, handed him a cup, and took his first good look at the lad.  
  
"I know you!" he exclaimed. "You are that rapscallion of a grandson of mine, Bertrand or some such, who never comes to visit. What are you doing here, rascal? Where are your parents, my daughter and that Guard who took her away from me?"  
  
"My name is Bergil, Grandfather. Not Bertrand. And I am here in search of athelas, as I told you at the door," the lad replied. He did not address the issue of his infrequent visits, for he did not care to tell his grandfather that the old man's irascible temper kept him away. Nor did he touch on the subject of his parents, for that too was a sore spot. Grandfather considered no one good enough for his favorite daughter, let alone a mere Guardsman such as Beregond. He was never shy about saying so as rudely as possible. The tension eventually became too much to bear, so the family kept visits down to an absolute minimum. Bergil had seen his grandfather perhaps half a dozen times in his entire life.  
  
"Athelas? What do you want that for? Nobody uses that anymore but old folks. You youngsters nowadays don't know the value of a useful herb," Grandfather complained.  
  
"One has come who does know its value, sir, and has urgent need of it. Please, if you have some to spare, may I take it?" Bergil said.  
  
"Take my athelas??" the old man cried, aghast. "But I need that for my headaches! I get horrible headaches, you know, and only the athelas can cure them. I cannot give it away. I have little enough as it is. And just who is this one you speak of, who has the smidgen of wisdom to know a valuable herb when he sees it?"  
  
"The King, sir, and he needs..." Bergil began.  
  
"The King? The King has been gone forever. He will not return," Grandfather interrupted.  
  
"But he has, Grandfather, and he needs...." the lad tried again.  
  
"He has?" the old man broke in. "How do you know? Why should I believe you?"  
  
"I've seen him, Grandfather, and spoken to him. He truly needs some athelas!" Bergil rushed to get his words out before the codger could interrupt him again. He saw the doubt in the old man's eyes. "Please, Grandfather, when have I ever lied to you? I know you don't know me well, but you must trust me on this! I have not the time to argue. Lives are at stake!" the boy pleaded.  
  
"Lives, eh? Whose lives?" the gent asked, softening at the boy's distress.  
  
"Lord Faramir, for one, and....." Bergil began to answer.  
  
"Faramir? What need has he of my athelas?" Grandfather interrupted yet again.  
  
"He was sorely wounded by a poisoned arrow, sir, and lies near death. So near, in fact, that Lord Denethor thought to immure his son in his funeral pyre, but Mithrandir and Peregrin, the perian prince, stopped him," Bergil explained.  
  
"Denethor, bah! He was never half the Steward his father Ecthelion was. Minas Tirith will feel no loss at his passing. Faramir, though, he's another story. If he needs athelas, as you say, I suppose I can spare a leaf or two," Grandfather said.  
  
"The King needs more than two leaves, for there are more in need than Lord Faramir, sir."  
  
"More in need? Who?"  
  
"The Lady Eowyn, and the perian Merry, who together slew the Lord of the Nazgul, have fallen into darkness and also need healing."  
  
"A lady, you say? Is she fair?" the old man asked as though it were the most important thing in the world.  
  
"She is wonderous fair, Grandfather, and valiant beyond words. But she sorrows, and fades into the dark, and the halfling with her," Bergil replied.  
  
"Halfling? This is thrice you've mentioned them, by two different names. What are they, truly? For I had always thought them mere legend and naught more."  
  
Bergil's face lit up as he considered the halflings. "Oh, but they are real, as real as you or me! They are small, smaller even than I, but courageous and true, and cheerful even in the worst of plights. The world will be a darker place if we lose little Merry. Pippin will grieve, and I would not have that. He is my friend."  
  
The aged codger was silent for a time, thinking. His wrinkled face was impassive, rendering it impossible to read. As the quiet stretched, Bergil began to wonder if approaching his estranged relative was such a good idea. But he knew of no other that kept the herb and remained in the city. If Grandfather did not come through for him, he had no recourse but to admit defeat. He would fail, and people would die.  
  
Finally, the old man spoke. "The Lord Faramir, a fair and valiant Lady, and a creature of legend that you call friend? These are who you need my herb for? And at the order of the King, no less. Boy, this is an outrageous story. Were we not living in strange times indeed, I would call you liar to your face. As it is, I have seen odder things of late, so I believe your tale. Let me fetch the athelas. You may take what I have, though I'll warn you, it is little, and not fresh."  
  
Bergil could have screamed with relief. He restrained himself with effort, only saying "Please hurry, Grandfather, for time grows short. I did not exaggerate the urgency. I have spent too much time searching already."  
  
"I'm going, I'm going!" he snarled, but gently and without real bite. "Have patience, boy. Old bones do not move as quickly as young ones."  
  
Bergil kept his peace, but he could not keep from fidgeting. Grandfather ever-so-slowly stood, even more slowly walked to his small kitchen and removed a clay jar. He doddered back to the table, jar shaking in aged hands, and set it down. Bergil, out of patience, pulled out his own handkerchief and laid it out on the table. Grandfather unstoppered the jar and shook the contents out onto the cloth.  
  
Six dried leaves settled onto the linen. "I told you it is not fresh, lad," Grandfather sighed. "My granddaughter culled it for me before she evacuated, two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve. I would not like to see young Faramir perish, nor your fair lady, nor the perian."  
  
"It will serve, Grandfather," the lad replied, wrapping up the precious herbs. "It will have to. I cannot thank you enough, sir, and I am certain the King thanks you as well. Mithrandir, too. Now, I must hurry back."  
  
"That you must, boy. Get you gone, lad, and save your friends. Tell the King where you got this, for I want my credit. I would like to meet him, someday, as well, but that is neither here nor there. Well? What are you lingering for? Did you not say this was urgently needed?" Grandfather grumbled, ruffling the boy's hair.  
  
Bergil grinned. Impulsively, he hugged the oldster around the waist, then dashed out the door with renewed hope. His mission had been successful.  
  
"Shut the door!" the old man called after the lad, but he was already too far away to hear. So Grandfather got up to close it himself. He stared briefly at the boy's retreating back, hoping this meeting would bring his family back to him. His gift of athelas was not entirely selfless.  
  
"King, indeed," he muttered to himself as he turned back into the warmth of his house. "I never thought to live to see the day. I hope he knows what he is doing with my herb. Oh well, back to my letter. I have much to write about now."  
  
  
  
A/N pt II---ye gods, what a pain in my tuchis this was to write! It demanded attention, then refused to flow once I sat down to type. Every word was a battle with this fic. So please, reward my hard work with a nice little click of the review button. There is more to come in my imagination, if I can but get it out. I hope the next chapter is not such a struggle as this one was.  
  
Oh! I almost forgot! Will somebody please tell me if I used "laid" correctly? For the life of me, I cannot remember if it is "lay it out on the table" or "laid it out on the table". I'll fix it if it's wrong, but I need to know first. And I call myself a writer....sheesh! 


	2. Unexpected Guests

Some days later, the old man was again sitting at his desk, this time reading. Perhaps a week had gone by since Bergil's visit, perhaps more, perhaps less. He was not really certain. The days had a way of flowing past without him noticing. Age did that to a man.  
  
He'd just gotten to a very interesting section of his story when he heard a pounding on his door. The oldster was tempted to ignore it, but curiosity overrode the impulse. He rose and went to the door, muttering insults at whomever dared disturb his reading. The codger yanked open the door and snarled, "What?"  
  
Bergil greeted his rudeness with an impish grin. " 'Tis me, Grandfather, come back to visit, and I have brought guests."  
  
"So I see," the old man said wryly, perfunctorily eyeing the crowd on his doorstep. Under normal circumstances, four people would not constitute a crowd, but when taking up space on his front stoop, they did. Even if one of them was his much-missed grandson. Still, never let it be said that his mother did not teach him basic manners, though he may not be the most gracious about them. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he grumped. "Come in."  
  
Bergil skipped in wearing the smug expression of one who has a great surprise hidden up his sleeve. After Bergil came another lad, shorter but older-looking. His mother apparently let him eat much too much, for he was rotund. She let him run around barefoot as well, which caused Grandfather to tsk in disapproval. What were mothers coming to these days, anyway?  
  
After the lads entered a lovely lady. She walked lightly, as a warrior does, with no wasted movement. Even the bandages swathing her arm did not hinder her grace. She had unusually light hair, yellow in color, that trailed down her back, and the most piercing blue eyes the old man had ever seen. Those eyes made him wish he was fifty years younger.  
  
Last of all came a man, a Ranger of Ithilien by his bearing. The oldster recognized such things, having served his time in that force, long, long ago. It was not until he'd shut the door and turned to speak to his unlooked-for guests that he realized just WHICH Ranger of Ithilien graced his home.  
  
"Lord Faramir!" the geezer cried in open astonishment. He turned on poor Bergil. "Why did you not warn me one of your guests was nobility?! I have not cleaned! I have nothing prepared! I have no fit fare to offer! Shame on you!"  
  
Faramir interrupted on Bergil's behalf. "Nay, do not scold the lad. He kept his peace at my insistence, for we have snuck out of the Houses of Healing and if word gets back to them, we will all suffer for it. Ioreth is not a woman to cross lightly," he said.  
  
"Ah, Ioreth!" the oldster sighed, "she is a fine woman, lively and intelligent. Sometimes TOO lively and intelligent, but a fine woman nevertheless."  
  
"We can introduce you to her, if you like, Grandfather," Bergil offered.  
  
"Scamp! Imp! To be setting up an old man like me! Where is your propriety? Besides, I already know her. She tended me when last I was ill," Grandfather replied sharply, but with an affectionate smile.  
  
While grandsire and grandson were teasing each other, the guests were standing around, unsure what to do. The elderly gent noticed them at last. "Ach, where are my manners? Please, sit, sit, make yourselves at home, all of you. I fear I have little to offer beyond tea. Would you like some? 'Tis very good, though I'll have to make a new pot," he babbled.  
  
"No, thank you, sir," Faramir said as he and the others sat on the couch. "We have only come to offer our thanks."  
  
"Thanks?" the old man asked. He honestly had no clue what they were talking about.  
  
"For the athelas, Grandfather," Bergil explained. He could not fathom why the adults were so uncomfortable with each other. His Grandfather was a grumpy old coot, to be sure, but his heart was pure and kind. It showed plainly in his actions, no matter how surly his words. Though Bergil himself had but only lately learned that, he expected that the adults could see it more easily. Couldn't they?  
  
"Oh, that. 'Twas nothing, a mere trifle," Grandfather said. He did not mention that he had had two severe headaches since then, nor that he sometimes sorely regretted giving up his only source of relief. One simply did not say such things to the Steward of Gondor.  
  
Faramir looked at the old man. "I would disagree, sir, but my mother always taught me not to argue with my elders. Still, were it not for your 'trifle', as you call it, we all would have died. And I would never have found my heart's delight," he said, taking the lady's good hand. She smiled softly.  
  
The old man looked at the pair appraisingly. "Ah, so that's the way it is, is it? I hear you are valiant, and I can see you are fair. But are you good enough for our Steward, young lady?"  
  
She pursed her lips, but did not snap at the oldster. She understood that old men often thought their age had earned them the right to be impertinent to whomever they pleased.  
  
"Rather ask if HE is good enough for ME, for I am Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden and sister of Eomer King, and will serve as Queen until he takes a wife," she replied with a small smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Old men were not the only ones who could be impertinent.  
  
The grumpy geezer stared at Eowyn for a few moments. Then he burst into laughter. Turning to Faramir, he said, "Hold on to this one, m'lord. She will keep you in your place, methinks, and make you thank her for doing so. A fine match, a fine match indeed."  
  
Faramir and Eowyn both seemed torn between amusement and consternation. Bergil and the barefoot lad, however, shared no such conundrum. The pair of them were trying to suppress giggles, somewhat less than successfully.  
  
"Something is funny?" Grandfather demanded testily.  
  
"Not at all, Grandfather," Bergil replied, the very picture of innocence.  
  
"And what about you, lad?" the geezer turned on the other boy, finally getting his first good look at him. "Wait, you're not a lad. You're one of those halflings, aren't you? That perian my grandson is friends with? What's the name, Pepper, or something like that?"  
  
"You are thinking of my cousin Pippin, who has marched east with the Host. I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, sometimes known as Merry, at your service sir," Merry replied with a bow.  
  
The old man was enchanted. He had never met a creature out of story before, let alone have one bow to him. It was a novel experience. At his age, novel experiences were few and far between, and thus to be cherished.  
  
He grinned down at the halfling. "You will have to pardon me for not returning your bow, Master Perian. Sciatica, you know. If I bend, I cannot straighten up again," the codger explained.  
  
"No trouble at all, sire. But please, call me Merry," he replied.  
  
Grandfather's grin turned into a pleased smile. "By all means, Master Merry. Are you certain I cannot interest you in that tea?" he asked.  
  
Merry, for his part, was entirely interested in tea. He did not understand why Faramir had refused in the first place. So now that the option was placed before him, he gratefully accepted.  
  
The old man happily retired to the kitchen. He was overwhelmed by his unexpected guests, and needed some time to get himself together again. He also needed something to occupy his hands and take his mind off the headache he could feel threatening. 'Twould not do to show such weakness before the Lord Faramir, nor the Lady Eowyn, nor especially his grandson.  
  
While the oldster puttered, the others had an opportunity to talk. The subject of conversation was, of course, their host.  
  
"Your grandfather seems a decent sort, Bergil, for all he is crotchety. He reminds me a bit of Sam's old gaffer, with a good heart under a brusque face," Merry commented.  
  
"I wish my parents could see that," the boy said sadly.  
  
"Why?" Merry wanted to know.  
  
"They are estranged, and have been since before I was born. This is the first time in my life I have seen Grandfather twice in the same month," the lad explained.  
  
"Do you know why they are estranged?" Faramir asked. He was familiar with the distance that can arise in families, and wanted to help if he could.  
  
"My father believes Grandfather does not think him worthy of my mother, and indeed, Grandfather does not. Harsh words have been exchanged, and now they stay away," Bergil sighed. "I wish Grandfather could see how noble and brave Father is, and that Father would admit Grandfather has a kind heart. I think he is only grumpy because he is lonely, and misses my mother."  
  
Faramir considered for a moment. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance there," he offered.  
  
"I doubt it, m'lord. Both are stubborn, and neither will make the first move towards reconciliation," Bergil replied.  
  
"That's sad," Merry said. "Family should keep in contact, even if they have troubles. Nay, especially if they have troubles. Distance solves nothing, but talking and love can sometimes cure all. Maybe you can get your parents to try again."  
  
Bergil stared at Merry for a long moment before speaking. "Do you know, sometimes, I forget you are not a lad like me? Then, you say something like that, and I remember that you are full-grown, and wise."  
  
Merry did not know what to say to that. Fortunately, he was saved by the old man's return, burdened with a full tea tray. Along with the teapot and cups, there was an assortment of breads, cookies, crackers and a few fruits. Grandfather had obviously emptied his larder to provide for his guests.  
  
"Oh, you did not need to do this, sir," Eowyn protested, rising and taking the tray from the oldster's shaking hands. "This must be all you have left. 'Tis far too much!"  
  
"Nonsense," the geezer replied. "Never let it be said that I do not know how to treat honored guests."  
  
"It is you who have honored us, sir, with your gift," Faramir said. "And we thank you."  
  
"Leave us not get into that again, m'lord," Grandfather protested. "Please, just sit and talk, and partake of my meager hospitality."  
  
There was nothing for it but to comply. Bergil poured tea as the adults settled in. Conversation ranged over many topics, from life in the Shire to plans for after the war was over. At one point, Grandfather and Faramir got into a heated debate over the effectiveness of past Rangers of Ithilien versus those of today. Each man firmly maintained the superiority of his own group. The discussion showed signs of turning heated until Eowyn firmly announced that one shieldmaiden of Rohan could best the lot of them. Merry and Bergil laughed while the men exchanged a knowing glance, but no one contradicted her.  
  
"You would know, m'lady. You are the one who slew the Witch-King, after all," Faramir said instead.  
  
"I had help," she replied, smiling at Merry. The hobbit blushed and turned away.  
  
"Ah, yes, I have heard some rumor of that. I understand the hurts you took doing such a deed were what required my athelas. If you truly do wish to thank me, I would hear the tale from those who were there," Grandfather said slyly. He was not afraid to take an opening when he saw one.  
  
Eowyn and Merry both winced. They had no desire to relive the events. However, they did feel they owed the old man a debt of gratitude. If the tale was what he wanted, then the tale was what he would get, no matter how painful.  
  
'Twas long in the telling, with many stops and contradictions. Both hobbit and maiden fought tears when speaking of Theoden's fall, and had to pause to collect themselves. Grandfather nearly forbade them finishing, his heart touched, but they did not give him the chance. Once the story was begun, it would be completed.  
  
A melancholy silence greeted the end of the tale. Bergil wrapped an arm around a shaking Merry, to comfort him. At length, Faramir gently brushed back a strand of Eowyn's hair, whispering, "I had no idea. I knew you suffered, but I did not understand the depths. I am sorry, beloved."  
  
"There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Faramir. 'Tis over and done with. We have the future to look towards, and the East," she replied, glancing in that direction.  
  
Meanwhile, the old man grew increasingly uncomfortable. He did not mean to cause pain with his curiosity. To change the subject, he turned to Faramir and asked, "And what of you, m'lord? I was told you, too, had need of my herb, but I have yet to hear your story. 'Tisn't fair for you to escape the telling."  
  
Faramir glanced at Bergil, still comforting Merry. He, too, knew how take an opening when he saw one. So as he told his tale, he paid special attention to the valor of Beregond, who risked his life against Denethor's wrath to save Faramir from burning. As the Steward spoke, he could see the old man thinking. He only hoped some of what he said got through to the codger, for Bergil's sake.  
  
At length, the tales were done and the tea long gone. The hour had grown late. Guests and host alike were weary.  
  
"We must take our leave now, sir," Faramir said, standing. "To slip back into the Houses of Healing at this hour will take some doing. I think we must expect a scolding ere we find our beds again."  
  
"Do not let Ioreth bully you, m'lord," Grandfather replied, escorting his guests to the door. "You did no wrong, and I did not let you exert yourselves overmuch. Thank you for coming to visit me. I enjoyed the company very much."  
  
"Thank you for your gift, and your hospitality, sire," Faramir countered. He was not about to let the old man get away without at least one proper thanks.  
  
Grandfather sighed. He knew when he was bested. "You are very welcome, m'lord. Feel free to visit again, you and your lovely lady. That goes for you as well, scamp, and your perian friend," he said, grinning fondly down at Bergil and ruffling his hair.  
  
"I will certainly do my best, Grandfather. I would like to get to know you better, sir," the lad replied.  
  
"I do not know how long I will remain in Minas Tirith, sir, for home calls strongly to me. But while I await my kin's return, I will certainly visit you. You make excellent tea," Merry said.  
  
Grandfather laughed. "Are all halflings like you?" he asked.  
  
"Sometimes," the hobbit replied with a grin.  
  
"Then I look forward to meeting more of your kind. 'Tisn't often I get to talk with creatures out of legend, and such charming ones at that. My home is always open to you and yours, little Master," the old man said.  
  
Eowyn said nothing, being deep in thought, but kissed the old man lightly on his cheek in farewell. He blushed like a lad. "You take good care of our Steward, young woman. He needs much looking after," he admonished.  
  
"I will," she answered softly. Then the guests left, leaving the old gent alone with his thoughts. He had much to think about.  
  
  
  
A/N----again with the Battle Royale over this fic! I swear, this thing is severely costing me what little sanity I had left. Every word a fight, every line of dialog a struggle, honestly! It would have gotten nowhere without my lovely beta and good friend Drew, so here's where I offer her sincerest thanks, and tell you all to go read her stories (Drew Marigold is her penname, I believe). I sincerely hope this was worth the effort and aggravation involved. And at least two more chapters to go......sigh. Somebody kill me now? Please? 


End file.
